


Toujours Volant

by lyin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Marauders, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4139442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyin/pseuds/lyin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius, flying: a one-shot. "Mr. and Mrs. Black never bought their sons broomsticks..." and Sirius Black never played in a single game of Quidditch at Hogwarts. Though, because James Potter was his best friend, he DID try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toujours Volant

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: A long, long time ago (*cue American Pie chords*) I belonged to a forum on fanfiction.net called The Reviews Lounge that started a Fanon Challenge, where we started listing details/facts that, despite no canon proof, had become commonly accepted in HP fanfics. And, although I had in various writings over the years included Sirius playing Quidditch, I admitted that my gut-instinct was that Sirius had not played Quidditch and took on that Fanon Challenge. I started the prompt. I never finished it (until now): parts date back to 2007, parts are new, I blended as much as I could without going crazy but if you notice a stylistic shift, think of it as a time capsule of my writing. 
> 
> Generally I try to be as-canon-as-possible, but for this fic know that despite the scene in Deathly Hallows that places the Willow prank before the lake incident (you can find meta on this on my Tumblr, where I'm thegirlwholied, but, in brief, damn but that timeline messes with the characterization of everyone involved) I've moved the Willow prank into early 6th year ("Sirius Black showed he was capable of murder at the age of sixteen": if the prank was 5th year, we either have a small point-of-view error or Snape just really has memorized when in 5th year Sirius turned 16, and given that his entire point is the youthfulness of the offense is missing a golden opportunity to make Sirius sound even worse... I could go on, it was not a short meta...).
> 
> But to get to the gist: thanks for reading, & I hope you enjoy this little Sirius Black character piece. ;D

Mr. and Mrs. Black never bought their sons broomsticks.

"We live in the middle of London," said Walburga, when Regulus turned nine and started the morning sulking over not getting the Comet 200 he wanted. "The very idea's inconceivable with all the Muggles puttering about night and day."

"Since when do you care what the Muggles think?" asked Sirius lazily, eyeing up Regulus' new Broadmoor brothers action figures.

"Don't be wise with me, Sirius Black," Mrs. Black warned. "We belong to a higher world. Muggles must—"

"Be kept ignorant," chorused Sirius and Regulus. "We know, Mum," added Sirius.

"Don't roll your eyes, boy," said Mr. Black, with a harrumph. "It's distinctly unattractive. Regulus—"

He looked up hopefully.

"—come Hogwarts, you'll have the finest broom on the field."

"That's ages and ages!" he said, his narrow shoulders dropping in devastation. "And Sirius'll have a real one first, and he doesn't even care about Quidditch!"

"Do too," said Sirius, nonplussed. " _I_ simply expect I'll be a natural."

"Well you should," said Mr. Black. "My uncle Lycoris was the finest Keeper ever to play for Slytherin."

"Andromeda said Hufflepuff hammered them this year," said Sirius. Regulus' Broadmoor figure was strutting across the carpet. Lightly, he kicked it over.

"Undoubtedly we'll do better," said his father, "when we've Black boys on the team again." He beamed at Regulus, who was watching Kreacher scurry past to right the miniature Karl Broadmoor.

"Oh, undoubtedly," said Sirius.

"Mind your tone," said his mother sharply. "We've a long and illustrious tradition of lifting Slytherin House above the rest in athletics as well as all else. You will both certainly be expected to take your place in it."

"Not," said Regulus darkly, "if I never even get to sit on one."

"Don't be preposterous, Regulus," said Mrs. Black. "Your toy comes close enough. We will ensure you are a credit to us. If necessary, we may arrange special flying instruction before your second year."

"Provided we'll play for Slytherin," said Sirius, not quietly enough.

Mr. Black looked up. "Why wouldn't you?" he said, his voice getting softer instead of sharper.

Sirius was chilled and gave only a weak shrug. "Nothing, sir… it's only that Andromeda says her House team isn't very good…"

"Never you mind what  _she_  says," said Mrs. Black, and Regulus, mouthing something about toys not coming close, caught her eye and nodded nervously. "Andromeda's getting  _notions_."

"It's only Quidditch," said Sirius. Most of her notions were about some fair-haired boy who played for Hufflepuff, which he couldn't care less about hearing.

"It is  _only_  the pride and glory of your ancestral House they are playing for," said his mother, snaring his chin in her thumb and forefinger. She tilted it up and held it, firmly. "When your cousin disparages Slytherin skill, she disparages her blood and yours and every drop of force and will put into making Slytherin great for ten centuries. She'll outgrow such silliness soon enough, and when it comes your time to serve your House, young man, you will have, too."

It sounded like a threat. Sirius didn't think Blacks served anyone or anything, but his mother was still holding his chin. So he didn't say another word.

He pulled away, rubbing at the finger marks on his chin, and glanced at Regulus, who had puffed up a little in anticipation but still looked sulky.

Sirius didn't get it. Sure, they dressed them up a little, but brooms were still only wood and straw, spelled to sweep puffs of dust when they weren't spelled to soar through clouds. Bit silly-looking, really.

Broomsticks didn't even make any interesting  _noises_.

* * *

Their uncle Alphard gave both Black boys broomsticks that Christmas, but their mother made them give them back.

"Sorry, Uncle Alph," said Sirius. "She says we'll only fly them in the house."

"No," corrected Regulus, his pale face a stunningly angry red. "Mum said  _you_  will."

"Well," said Sirius. "She isn't wrong."

"Look, boys," said Uncle Alphard, leaning on his blackthorn stick to come in close and wink. His breath smelled like malt and wintergreen. "Why don't I sneak those back to you and have it be our little secret?"

Sirius grinned, but the color vanished from Regulus' cheeks.

"Mum said no," Regulus said, so fast his words strung together. "And besides," he added, regaining his calm but not his pallor, "Sirius isn't any good at keeping secrets. We'd only get in more trouble."

"But thanks heaps anyways," said Sirius.

Regulus, later, talked himself around to not caring. They were only Cleansweep Fours, anyhow, and their parents would certainly get them Nimbus 1001's, if not something better, by the time they could bring them to school.

Sirius found he'd truly wanted to keep that Cleansweep Four. It was startlingly light to lift and maybe he could have used a longer handle, but even if they were silly things, it came in red and something in the wood felt warm and alive, like his dad's wand when he got a hold of it.

Most importantly, his Mum didn't want him to have it. And he'd never really had the knack for minding his mum.

* * *

He didn't really care about Quidditch until James Potter.

"What do you fly, anyways?" The slight dark-haired boy was seated across from him on the Hogwarts Express. Sirius had followed him out of one compartment, with the crying girl and her ugly friend, and into another, although he hadn't even gotten the other boy's name yet. The boy talked a lot and kept moving, too; he was bouncing his leg in place, at double the rate of the jostle of the train.

"I don't have a broomstick," said Sirius carelessly.

The boy looked jolted. "Thought you said your family's a wizarding lot?"

"We are," said Sirius.

"And you don't have a broomstick? Not even a Shooting Star?"

"Nope."

"…An Oakshaft?"

"Sorry," said Sirius.

"Your father must have one you borrow or something…"

He'd only ever seen his father Apparate. Sirius tried to picture him on a broomstick, but Orion Black was so straight-backed the image of him leaning into his broom and zipping around, wind mussing his pristine robes, made Sirius break into a smile and the first note of a laugh. "Hardly."

The boy whistled, low. "There  _must_  be something wrong with your family," he said, sounding rather awed.

"Never said there wasn't. Reckon the snack cart'll be around soon?"

The boy didn't seem to hear him. "I've been on a broomstick since I was five," he said, scratching at his head and mussing his already untidy hair. "I think I'll go mad this year without my own. Stupid first year rule-" He stopped, and Sirius could see the thoughts tumbling behind his new mate's eyes as plainly as he could see them shift between brown and a shade closer to green. "You do mean to play, of course?"

Sirius, right then, decided why not. "Of course," he said.

"You'll definitely be needing a broom, then. I'd offer to loan you one of my old ones, but it'd likely be a bit small." He paused as his thoughts caught up with his mouth. "Did I mention I'm James Potter?"

Sirius stuck out his hand. "Sirius Black."

"Right," said James, taking and pumping his hand enthusiastically. "I won't hold your lack of broomstick against you," he said in a grave tone. "But you do back the Magpies, yeah?"

"What if I don't?" said Sirius.

James made a mock-repulsed face. "I might have to go find that Snivellus fellow and sit with him."

Sirius laughed. "Oh, I bet you would. Sadly for Snivellus, I reckon the 'Pies'll steal the League Cup again this year, and anyone who doesn't support Montrose is plain stupid, seeing as they're half the English side come Cup season."

"See, you are all right," said James, delightedly. "Let's see about that snack cart, yeah? I could go for a Pumpkin Pasty."

"I could go for three," said Sirius, stretching and springing to his feet to follow James.

* * *

Later he'd realize first year spoiled him. There was nowhere he couldn't follow James. At Quidditch matches Sirius sat in the stands with Remus, Peter, and James, but it was James who made it interesting. Remus was good at pointing out all the little things, fouls like blurting and cobbing that never got called, which James found fascinating but which could put Sirius to sleep.

Not that there was any lounging about at Quidditch games. One of the best things about James was that he never sat still. Even listening acutely to Remus' comments or Peter's reports on what the Slytherin side was saying, James nodded and tapped out a rat-tat-tat on the nearest surface with his fingertips. And he was contagious. He hollered, leaped, and hugged third-year girls they didn't know over every penalty shot Inglebee made or last-second save of Prewett's. And with James around, Sirius did too. James could break down the weaknesses of Ravenclaw's Dopplebeater Defense just as well as Remus, but he was also good for unleashing toads on the girls a few rows ahead or jinxing a Slytherin bench to scorch their rears and send them hopping about.

And when they got detention for it, neither cared. Sirius had more fun polishing suits of armor with James on one Saturday than he'd had the whole summer before with his brother.

Flying lessons were the only place where it was a fight to keep up. The boys looked forward to having them with the Slytherins, anticipating watching Snivellus try to fly, given that he twitched while  _walking_. Disappointingly, Snape wasn't dreadful, and no one fell off their broomsticks, not even Peter. They did have a spot of trouble with the Slytherins over one girl who couldn't get the broom to jump to her hand, but Madam Sykes squelched that before anything exciting happened.

For all the talk everyone had been throwing around about dodging blimps and outracing jet planes, no one was as good as James. They all knew it. They could hear the exclamation points of Madam Sykes' "Very good, Mr. Potter!" that just weren't there for her "Excellent, Mr. Rosier." Brutus Scrimgeour, the sixth-year Gryffindor captain, was even spotted lurking around the third week of lessons or so with binoculars trained on one Mr. Potter.

Sirius got exclamation points, too. "Slow up, Mr. Black!" or "Not so high, Mr. Black!" and most popularly, "Black! Control!  _Get some control_!"

Sirius at times actually zipped about faster than James, but James cut through the air smoothly, like a falcon. Sirius' concept of steering was more a floundering pigeon's.

But at least Sykes didn't correct his entire grip like she did Peter's, singling him out for a full four minutes while the Slytherins snickered.

Besides, Sirius _liked_  the way he steered. It kept things interesting.

It didn't bother him at all till end of the year, packing the Gryffindor banners they'd made to wave about at matches to post on his wall. He'd already seen Regulus' snaky new color scheme at Christmas.

"Here, take mine too," said James, rolling up the brown paper they'd painted red and emblazoned with lions.

"Figure we'll make better ones next year?" asked Sirius.

James stilled, almost uncomfortably surprised, and glanced over at Remus, who was cramming too-small sweaters into his battered trunk.

In turn Remus flickered his gaze to Sirius. "Well, James'll be on the field if he has his way next year, won't he?" said Remus calmly. "And aren't you planning on trying out too?"

"Oh right," said Sirius. He'd forgotten. "There won't be any spots open, though, not next year."

"They'll make room," said James confidently. "I'm brilliant."

"And Towler's terrible," said Peter enthusiastically. "You'll definitely make it, James."

"You are going to go out for the team next year?" James asked Sirius, earnestly.

"I might," said Sirius loftily.

"Brilliant!" said James, but paused. He lowered his voice slightly. "Be sure to practice your steering, right?"

Sirius was wounded.

But he did practice his steering.

* * *

It was not enough. He saw that right away second year, in the way James' face wrinkled when they went to practice, and from James' offer to help him get in some secret training. That was fun, getting out of the castle via Invisibility Cloak and flying as inconspicuously as possible around the grounds. They had to steer their brooms behind the Astronomy Tower one night when Professor McGonagall suddenly walked outside, escorting, of all people, Remus.

"He said his mother's sick again," James said, in a slow, self-convincing voice.

"Yup," Sirius grunted, wrestling with his broom. It did not want to stay in place; every broom he rode seemed to list slightly to the side. He'd blamed the brooms, until James let him try his, and declared it a Sirius problem. "Dumbledore's good about letting him go home."

"That's not the direction to the bus or the train," James said, in a voice so odd Sirius turned all the way around to look at him despite the risk of toppling off his broom. James was looking up at the very bright moon. But he shook his head and said, "C'mon. You need to get your dives and rolls down."

The practice made no difference in the end. Sirius was not invited back to the second day of tryouts; James was, the only student under fourth year to achieve as much. And he did make the team, in a fashion.

"Alternate," he moaned, throwing himself dramatically across his bed in their dorm. "Alternate!"

"Alternate Seeker, that's exciting," Peter said encouragingly.

James moaned louder.

"He wants Chaser," Remus explained. "Seekers spend most of the game, well, not in the game."

"Guess you're stuck with us at matches for a bit longer, mate," Sirius said sorrowfully.

James sat up, adjusting his glasses. "No, at the very least I'm an  _official_  alternate," he said. "I'll be on the bench."

"Oh," Sirius said. "Great. Great!"

And it was great. For James.

* * *

Sirius tried out the next year, again, and felt excellent about his Beater tryout. But the name 'Sirius Black' did not make the team list. When he complained to the captain he'd done an excellent job knocking other contenders off their brooms, he got back nothing but mumbles of "anger issues" and "hazard to himself and others" and "but your steering, Black!"

By then their foursome knew about Lupin's furry little problem, and they were spending all their spare hours in their library or robbing McGonagall's Transfiguration closet. While James stumbled sleepily off to practice, Sirius pored over books with Remus or took the Invisibility Cloak and Peter on an 'errand' to procure another necessary Non-Tradeable Good. He did have fun at the matches, with Remus and Peter, watching James get to fly the way he was meant to, but it was… quieter, no matter how much noise Sirius made to try to make up for it. He wasn't going to bother trying out fourth year, except James made a lot of noise about spots on the team and how much fun they'd have at practice together. And to his relative shock, new captain Gideon Prewett made him an alternate.

He knew, however, from James' time as an alternate that this did not mean actually participating in practice, so much as being allowed to stand on the sidelines and possibly included at some point later on. Possibly.

Prewett had a lot of friends and had made a lot of alternates. The bench was essentially just an extra cheering section, none of the alternates in uniform. And James was in the sky.

After the first match against Slytherin, Sirius chose Remus and Peter, and the stands, instead.

* * *

Sixth year, now, was different in three important ways. For two, Sirius had left home, and James became Captain of Gryffindor.

"Beater or Keeper?" James said to him, tossing his Captain badge over to Sirius when it arrived at breakfast, in late summer. "I thought Beater, but you can have Keeper, if you like."

"I'm rubbish at Keeper," Sirius said, surprised.

"That's why I'm hoping you say Beater." James grinned. "It'll be a gas, the two of us playing together. Everyone better watch out."

As it turned out, everyone really did need to watch out; at their first practice, Sirius accidentally gave one of the Chasers a concussion and broke both the bat and arm of the other Beater, McLaggen. Sirius could actually steer fairly well by now, and hitting a Bludger was no problem; it was doing both at the same time that proved difficult.

"You'll have it down by game time," James said, faintly, but he looked as pale as Remus near full moon every time he said it and the closer the first match came.

The third important difference was that Regulus Black had been made Slytherin Seeker, and to Sirius' total bewilderment and shock, his brother was actually really very good.

It helped that he had a fancy broom, courtesy of their parents. Only the best for the Blacks, even when Sirius suspected they couldn't really afford it.

Sirius and James spied on Slytherin practice, of course. When James passed Sirius the omnioculars, he slowed down Regulus' swoops and darts to better study them—and even then, he still looked fast. Regulus flew with sharper edges than James, not as smooth, not as easily. But he was quick and slightly built and had an excellent grasp of steering.

James snatched the omnioculars back and said out of the side of his mouth, "You never said your brother played well."

Sirius was himself wondering why, when James had told him to practice, asking his brother to train with him never even occurred to him.

He said only, "You know we're not close."

James' eyebrows arched high over the omnioculars, and Sirius could tell James did not understand. Flying was a part of childhood in a way it had never been in the Black household, and James, who had never had to share anything, shared everything without thinking twice.

Sirius couldn't help but wonder what Regulus would be like if he'd had James for an older brother instead.

Shortly after seeing Regulus fly, James asked their Seeker, McKinnon, for her weight and width measurements, for velocity-determining purposes, and only narrowly made it out of the conversation without bodily harm. Privately, within the boys' dorm, James tossed around the idea about switching back to Seeker himself for the one game, and threw his stolen Snitch from hand to hand with more purpose than usual and a frown on his face. He sat down with Remus and drew squiggles on parchment, and a list of names, of who he could switch around. Peter threw out suggestions. Sirius only watched.

"I could step out, mate, I wouldn't mind," Sirius said before their next practice. "If you needed."

"No, it'll be your first game," James said distractedly, adjusting his wrist guard, "you've been waiting to make the team for  _years_ , and you're a very good Beater… in your own way. You're dangerous, that's what counts in a Beater."

"I'll knock Regulus off his broom," Sirius offered.

"That would help," James allowed.

But attempting to practice this led to both Sirius and McKinnon on the ground of the pitch, McKinnon griping as they stumbled upright that he wasn't even _trying_.

The thing of it was, he  _was_  trying.

Sirius did not often have to try, and when he did, he never  _failed_. He left practice early, annoyed, alone, and looking for trouble.

It found him immediately.

He could still hear distant shouts from the pitch, still fell under its shadow as he scuffed his way through the grass of the grounds, when dryly slow applause stopped him in his tracks.

"Looks like a Black _will_  be winning Slytherin the Cup," a familiar voice said from behind him. "You'll do more for us than your brother ever could."

Sirius spun, but Snape's wand was already out, and Sirius had to duck the curse that came his way. Since things had gone south between Snape and Evans, Snivellus had gone on the aggressive, more so than Sirius would have expected.

Snape had built up a repertoire of nasty spells. Two minutes in and Sirius was bleeding profusely from his chin—he wasn't sure whether or not that curse had been aimed for his throat—and his wand arm seemed to be dislocated.

Sirius had a few spells rattling around his head, straight out of the Black family library, that he'd  _never_  pull in front of James. Not strictly Dark magic, but not, well— _nice_.

Three minutes in and Snape's eyes were blacked, blood was dripping out of both his ears, and he was raging mad to be matched at his own game.

"So eager to help the  _cause_ , your brother," Snape shot, between muttered curses, "do you know that, Black? Do you know he's been following us around?"

"Regulus does have lousy taste, but you? You're beneath even him," Sirius said, trying to sound like he wasn't out of breath.

Snape's legs were stuck in an uncontrollable waltz (some use had come out of Sirius' bygone dancing lessons), but, ignoring them, he said, smirking, "He's become practically our own Pettigrew, following us around, lapping at our boots—"

"Peter's our friend," Sirius snapped, tossing out an unspoken Knockback curse that Snape still blocked. "You're the one lapping around the likes of Malfoy and Mulciber all these years—following  _us_  around—"

Snape's lips moved again, but this time Sirius didn't hear what he said and—

Suddenly, Sirius found himself absurdly relaxed and far away.

"And why is that, do you think?" Snape said coldly. He stepped closer, training his wand on Sirius, who suddenly could not be bothered to lift his limp arm. Snape's eyes looked very black as he loomed closer. "Where do you go on the full moon?" Snape hissed.

Sirius' mouth twitched—then he rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers—definitely dislocated, that arm—and threw off the curse. It hadn't been Imperius, but it had certainly been a close cousin. Resistance to mild controlling spells: that, Sirius had years of practice at. He was good at this.

Snape was so startled for a moment, Sirius took the opportunity to send his best tripping hex at Snape's still-three-stepping feet. Snape, flailing as he fell, tried to send some unfamiliar purple curse Sirius' way—but it died, still at Snape's wand-tip, as Sirius stunned him.

Snape ended up face-up on the ground, his eyes moving rapidly, the rest of him dead still.

Pathetic, Sirius thought, as he walked up and looked down at Snape. He toed Snape's wand out of his limp hand, kicking it aside onto the grass.

"You thought you could control me?" he said, lips still twitching. "You?"

Sirius barked a quick laugh. His chest felt tight, and his arm hurt, and he still felt slightly far away, not in a floating, controlled way, but cold, and a little surreal. Was his brother really hanging around Mulciber's crowd? Had he really not noticed? He threw away the thought and looked down at Snape, sneer frozen on his face, hapless, helpless, not much of a rival at all.

"You want to know where we go that badly?" Sirius said, sneering back down at Snape. He felt a real laugh rising. Some use Snivellus would be, if he saw "Moony"— if he saw the Marauders for all they really were. The prat would probably piss himself. "You really want to follow us on the full moon?"

Snape blinked frantically as Sirius came closer to him. He bent, not kneeling, sinking to his haunches, tapping his wand once against Snape's neck.

"All right, Snivelly," he said, low, bringing his head near Snape's ear. Though not too near that greasy hair. He told him about a knot on the trunk of the Whomping Willow he could prod with a stick to stop the tree, open a passage. He told Snape he'd be sorry, if he followed them, and with a punctuating laugh, that he doubted Snape would really dare.

Then he straightened to his full height and walked away, feeling every inch the aristocrat.

It took him all the way back to the dorms, when he came face to face with Remus' four-poster bed and battered old trunk, to remember how much he hated that feeling.

It took him until the night of the moon to admit to himself he'd made a mistake, and even then, he told James what he'd done like he was telling a joke. A nervous sort of joke.

To jump to the punchline, it all turned out okay, but no one, not even Sirius, laughed.

Sirius did not get expelled. He did not, even, get suspended or detention, because Dumbledore did not want to draw attention to the reason for punishment. Detention, Dumbledore said, in a cold voice Sirius would not hear from him again for many years to come, would be "inadequate."

"However, Sirius," Dumbledore said, less chilly but still quiet, "I believe it is time you learned not everything is a game."

"Yes sir," Sirius said quickly, answering Dumbledore as he once would his father.

Dumbledore looked at him over his glasses for a long time. "Perhaps, then," he said softly, "you should, for a while, stop playing them."

And as he, just as quietly, just as softly, suggested Sirius should not be on the Quidditch pitch when Gryffindor took the field against Slytherin, or at all this year, or next year, in fact, Sirius nodded his agreement. And tried not to seem too relieved.

James, the Quidditch Captain, was relieved, too, even though James, his best friend, who'd always wanted Sirius on his team, was disappointed. Still, Gryffindor lost James' first game as Captain—to Slytherin. Regulus came up with the Snitch. The game went long, and things were too tense between Sirius and Remus for Sirius to feel comfortable back with him and Peter in the stands. Sirius missed the end of the game.

He didn't speak to Regulus about Quidditch all year, until May when he almost walked into him right after Slytherin beat Hufflepuff. Regulus was talking to some straw-haired friend of his, a Ravenclaw who seemed to spend a lot of time with the older Slytherins. Kid of some bigwig at the Ministry.

"Regulus," Sirius called out, as he walked by the younger boys in the hall corridor, "You flew well."

Regulus did not acknowledge him. Kept talking. So Sirius made sure to add, "Maybe someday you'll be half as good as James."

Regulus flinched, and Sirius kept walking.

"What would you know?" Regulus called angrily after him, and Sirius put his hands in his pockets and whistled as he rounded the bend.

It was not, quite, the last conversation he would have with his brother.

But after Regulus went missing in the summer of 1979, Sirius thought, a lot, about their sparse exchanges of words, in the years before.

It was certainly the last conversation they ever had about Quidditch. Or about flying.

* * *

It was remarkable, really, how much Muggle paper they'd give you for one Galleon. Sirius liked its lightness. It didn't weigh on the pockets without being spelled for weightlessness. It didn't need to be carried in a shrinking wallet. All he had to do was slip it in his jean pocket, and he was free.

Sirius blew a lot of paper getting the motorcycle.

It was a great hulking thing, black and bold, shining with silver above the wheels. Riding on it sent his hair blowing back— it might look cool if he let it grow out a bit more, he thought- and his shirt rippling like grass in a windstorm.

And it was terrifically, terribly loud.

Muggle drivers honked at him as he veered in front of them, his hands flexing against the rubber grips. Passerby turned their heads his way, but he was by them before they got a proper look at him, or him at them. His legs rested against its thrumming sides, instead of dangling in midair, and when he turned sharply, he and the bike dipped towards the ground together, as if they were one.

He took it to show James straightaway. James must have heard him coming before Sirius had even turned down the Potter's gated-off drive, since he was out the door, barefoot and hollering with glee as Sirius went from full speed to stop.

"No helmet?" said James, laughing hard and keeping his grin between breaths. James had to repeat himself, since the bike was still growling and Sirius had to cut the gas before he understood a word.

"It came with one," said Sirius. "I chucked it a few miles back."

James nodded, sympathetically. "Flattened your hair?"

"Entirely. So," said Sirius, face splitting in a grin to match James', "what do you think?"

"Well," said James. "It's certainly not a broomstick. It's much more- you."

"And?"

"Is that as fast as it goes?"

Sirius drummed his hands against the handles. "Not for long."

"Great, then." James, circling the motorbike, stared at the engine, curiously. "Can I have a go?"

"You can have a ride," said Sirius, pointedly. "I'm steering."

James, equally pointedly, faked a grimace.

"She handles much easier than a broomstick," Sirius assured him.

"Yeah," said James, grimace fading. "She's a beauty—very shiny— but you can't compare her to a broomstick when she's ground-bound."

Sirius lounged back on the seat and reached into his back pocket, producing his wand. He twiddled it between his long fingers and passed it to his other hand, still spinning. "She's not going to stay that way," he said.

"Oh," said James, eyebrows lifting. Then he smirked, the imperfect, lopsided one that had only escaped a handful of brilliant times, when they found the passage to Hogsmeade and after the four Marauders' first full moon all together, and when he made the Quidditch team, the one adventure James had alone. Sirius found he couldn't begrudge him it, especially not when James had tried so hard to share it.

He was certainly going to share his own adventure.

"You'll be wanting my help with the Charms, for sure," said James, beaming. "Want to get started?"

"Soon as we go for a spin," said Sirius. "Hop on, Prongs- and hang onto your specs."

* * *

Sirius had never been in love before. But when they got her in the air, he was pretty sure it felt like this— wind rushing by, stomach dropping out, a rush of warmth from toes to cheeks.

He didn't know why he'd never seen before how the sky and moon and stars looked brighter, and a thousand times more reachable, from somewhere way up high.


End file.
